


It was poetry.

by xyma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist!Keith, Keith is a first year, M/M, Poet!Shiro, Shiro is a third year, will add more characters as it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xyma/pseuds/xyma
Summary: This has been going on for about a month now.Keith comes home to a mailbox of poetry and flowers and finds himself wondering, time and time again, just who the mystery poet is. He wonders, imagines, and hopes that he'd be able to accidentally bump into them and share something special. He hopes that the mystery poet is someone he would love to date in person.A month's been long enough, and he begins to carefully decipher who it could be with the help of some friends.He automatically rules out his hot literature major jock neighbor, Shiro.Because why would he?





	It was poetry.

This has been going on for about a month now.

It seems to Keith that it has already been ingrained in his daily routine, for him to arrive home from his side job of painting walls and enduring criticism from people who have never picked up a brush to a mailbox with the flag dragged up, something sweet waiting to be found. He finds himself excited to arrive home ever since he’s accepted that it would keep happening, hopping off his motorcycle and, with a smile, opening the mailbox to find a single rose and a crisp envelope inside. He pulls them out, inspects the beautiful calligraphy of his own name along the back and appreciates the mastery of it.

He brings it inside, giving his door a little kick for it to open with a creak, and hurriedly moves his sketchpad off his couch to make way for himself to crash on, staring at the ceiling minutely as he contemplates on this now-routine. In a way, the artist feels guilty, wonders if receiving these is something he deserves, but it’s a question he’s long given up finding the answers on. He carefully fiddles with the flap, opening it and pulling out the small card, reading the two-stanza poem.

> _Pave paths with the bristles of your artistry_
> 
> _Carve history along the marble of my lands_
> 
> _My muse, your paints are your artillery_
> 
> _Possess the fine breadth within my hands_
> 
> _Your works, oh, your works, i have seen_
> 
> _The rawest, unadulterated reflection of your soul_
> 
> _I had no words for, taken, my soul had lean_
> 
> _Towards your work, where it humbly feels whole_

Keith sighs, long, feeling a warmth inside him as he reads it over, and over, and over again. There’s just something in the way this person writes about him -- he is _“his muse”_ , as the poet calls it -- that makes Keith want to believe in it. That he’s as good, as fearless, and as strong as they make him sound. Sometimes he thinks it isn’t him that he’s writing about, that it feels almost but not quite. But it may just be because he sees himself differently, he thinks, or maybe it isn’t even there.

It bothers him, endlessly, and for a minute he feels he doesn’t deserve this much love. But he appreciates it. Finds a warmth in this different kind of show of affection than what he’s been used to -- making out with who knows who in a club or a party he gets dragged into, getting numbers and breaking up before the next season comes around --, he finds this, a wholesome artistic flirtation to be something akin to infatuating. Different. Nice. Intellectually stimulating. You get the point.

He finds his way back into his room and tiptoes to reach the back of his shelf, his thoughts wandering back to day one, where he wrote back a “ _This is Keith Kogane you’ve got the wrong address.”_ and got back an _“I know.”_ in the now familiar neat, cursive writing. He didn’t know how to respond to that. So he let it happen, despite the initial disbelief and reluctance of it all, and even keeps all these little poems neatly compiled in a clear book, tucked away in his back shelf. It’s something sort of a guilty pleasure to him. A little, not dirty, secret he finds himself embarrassed by but not ashamed of.

So he lets it happen, but he isn’t stupid enough not to think of any repercussions. The poet could be anyone but is definitely someone who _can write_. But what if they’re an obsessive person? A creepy stalker? What if Keith attracted another weirdo who’s going to tell him they want to nut on his paintings? He shivers at the thought, recalling.

The thoughts are willed away, the artist deciding that a nice, long, warm bath is needed. Who knows where he’s going to magically find paint on his body this time. He tucks away today’s poem in a new file in the clear book and returns it to its hiding spot neatly before chucking off his work clothes to the floor in lieu of taking the bath of his life.

He hums as he steps out of the bathroom, nodding his head to the beat of Thanks for the Memories by Fallout Boy, tapping his foot and drying his hair with his towel, his eyes wandering around the room for anything he knows he should be doing. The university calendar for him has been relatively free ever since hell week - constituting five plates due around the same time - so he considers it, verbatim, “As it should be.”. His eyes lift and land to a view just outside his window, through the window of his neighbor.

Straight to eight-pack abs.

**Author's Note:**

> Will post updates and poetry sneakpeeks on my twitter!
> 
> @xymaaaa
> 
> This is the teaser chapter aaaaaaa don't worry the next chapters definitely won't be as short!!! my semester break will be relatively long, so i'm hoping to finish this before my next semester begins! thank u
> 
> Updates will be every other week!


End file.
